Is there a male menopause? As a man in his mid-50s, I have recently become aware of getting older. Increasing age has had a curious effect on my psyche. I am noticing, on an almost daily basis, that I am thinking, feeling and behaving in ways that are starkly different from my youth and earlier adulthood. I will share these experiences on this blog and hope others will join me in describing their own age-related quirks and oddities. I can't be the only one at this "funny age", can I??

Friday, 26 February 2016

This treasured male organ is arguably the most complicated,
and least understood, piece of a chap’s body. Nevertheless, the knowledge of
the factors controlling its rise and fall - whether it will puff out its chest
and stand proud or burrow into the folds of the bollocks – can bestow ladies
with a level of power that could dwarf the wizardry of Hermione in the Harry
Potter films.

So here it is, the woman’s guide to how to control your
man’s erection. Used wisely, your partner’s todger will inflate or deflate as
you so wish, like a balloon permanently attached to your pump.

1. Flirting & teasing

Subtle flirting, with your
beloved and other men, can send a tidal wave of blood towards your partner’s
willy.

Sitting next to your dearest on
the settee in the evening, clad only in a silky negligee, can often achieve
good results. Importantly, he must know that you are not wearing any underwear;
even though he’s seen your lady bits a thousand times, the knowledge of what is
hiding a few inch above a flowery hemline can send the male of the species into
a frenzy.

As for other men, an awareness
that you can still attract testosterone-fuelled attention can be a turn on –
maybe it’s something to do with a primitive instinct to compete for access to
the on-heat female. The sight of the plumber glancing at Mrs Jones’ luscious
arse, or a breast wobble, certainly can get my heater running, and I’m sure
this doesn’t just apply to me. Does it? Really?

2. Pre-sex comments

When sexual activity is imminent,
and the man lets the beast out of the cage – or in my case, when I seductively
slip out of my off-white, gusset-worn briefs – the woman’s immediate reaction
can determine whether it’s going to be a lusty marathon of uninhibited passion
or a floppy 60-metre dash.

Facial expressions conveying awe
are always welcome, particularly when accompanied by comments implying that the
item swinging between the man’s legs is big enough to do some harm if driven by
an irresponsible owner; ‘wow, what’s got into that big boy’ or ‘be gentle with
me’ never fail to encourage further engorgement of the male organ.

In contrast, statements often
used in response to a baby or a puppy – ‘ah look at him, how cute’ or ‘isn’t he
adorable’ – will ensure the meat shrivels as quickly as a salted slug.

3.

Gas emissions

Ladies, you may have shared the
same bed with him for decades, but farting or belching during coitus are a
definite no-no. The smell of gas, from either end of the digestive tract, will
stun a stout erection like a taser, leaving it twitchy and limp.

4. Grasp his weapon with both hands

Irrespective of what the
agony-aunts say, size matters. At least it does in the male mind, where a
belief that heavy weaponry will be involved is essential to sustain an
erection.

So, ladies, when you grab his
willy don’t use a finger and thumb; that gives the impression of micro work,
like threading cotton through a needle. Instead grab his todger with both
hands, one above the other, as if about to climb a rope. Granted, in my case
this may require David-Blaine-like illusionary skills and a degree of finger
dexterity worthy of a professional hand-puppeteer, but the deception will
always be rewarded with enhanced sexual performance.

5. Mid-coitus noises

In the midst of sexual abandon,
orgasmic female cries – genuine or otherwise – will keep the phallic embers
burning. Silence gives the impression (probably accurate in Mrs Jones’ case)
that the lady’s mind has drifted and rather than being immersed in the pleasure
of your lusty lunges, she is instead considering what colour of varnish she’ll
put on her nails in the morning.

And some mid-sex comments must be
avoided. Speaking from personal experience, guaranteed willy-softeners include:
‘Are you in yet?’; ‘Can you keep your mouth shut, you’re spitting all over me’;
and ‘Will you cut your toe-nails – they’re like fucking talons!’.

6. Skin scratching

Urgent clawing of the male
buttocks indicates that the lady is enjoying herself and, as such, sustains the
blood flow to man’s fifth limb. Superficial scratches down the back - as long
as they don’t cause haemorrhage and divert blood flow from where it’s most
needed – are also helpful in instilling the primitive, animalistic dimension to
the sexual act that men find so arousing.

A definite no-no, however, is
inflicting pain on the meat and two veg. Ballocks are meant to be caressed and
cradled, not grabbed and twisted. And fingernails piercing the todger is a
sure-fire way of transforming a throbbing phallus into a wet straw.

So, ladies, there you have it;
the knowledge and power to forever control the male member. What better skill
could you wish for? Your welcome.

Thursday, 4 February 2016

In her early 30s, with shoulder-length auburn hair and
full figure, she brightened my working week. Indeed, she kindled all my five senses.
My 50-year-old eyes feasted on her taut buttocks and fulsome breasts – but only
when she was occupied and wouldn’t notice my attention; I’m a gentleman and
wouldn’t wish to make her feel uncomfortable nor for her, God forbid, to conclude
that I was indulging in unwholesome thoughts. Her gentle voice caressed my
eardrums with intelligent commentary on work-related issues. And as for smell,
her entry into the office was always followed by a delightful waft of Opium
perfume mingled with herbal-essence shampoo. Alas, the touching and tasting
only happened within the confines of my imagination.

But there is one major drawback of sharing an office
with a woman: you can’t fart. Amongst males, one can let an audible one fly,
apologise, and carry on as normal. But with females around, gassy emissions are
prohibited.

Contrary to what you read in biology textbooks and on
social media, pretty women never fart. Nor do they defecate. It is a
little-known fact that females’ waste products, and associated gases, evaporate
from the tops of their heads and smell like hairspray.

One morning in the office, Suzanne at the adjacent
desk, I felt the ominous stomach rumble, like the extended growl of thunder
prior to an electric storm. A swirling vortex of noxious gas was demanding
release and accelerating towards my arse. And I knew it would produce a stench
of eye-watering intensity - six pints of finest cask ale the night before would
see to that - so slipping it out silently was not an option.

‘I’ll pop out and photocopy this document’ I said,
while rising from my chair and grabbing the nearest piece of paper from the
desk.

‘Do you want me to do it later?’ asked Suzanne. ‘I’ve
got a lot of photocopying to do and …’

‘No it’s OK’, I interrupted, already exiting the
office.

Clenching my buttocks, I scampered along the corridor
to the deserted photocopying room and closed the door behind me. In the privacy
of this oasis, I leaned forward, hands on my thighs, and prepared to let rip. But
nothing happened. As with other bodily functions – urinating in the doctor’s
bottle, achieving an erection during one’s first sexual encounter – the process
of breaking wind can, paradoxically, fail to deliver when you most need it to.
On this occasion, my intestinal cyclone of noxious vapour had performed a
U-turn and burrowed into the depths of my gut. I loitered a couple of minutes
beside the photocopier, expecting the stomach rumble to return, but the gas
showed no sign of a seeking a reappearance.

Deflated in mood, if not in body, I returned to my
office. As I entered I noticed Suzanne’s cheeks had turned crimson. Unusually,
she did not look up to acknowledge my presence, instead maintaining an
unwavering focus on her computer screen.

And then it hit me. A rancid mix of rotting egg and semi-digested
cabbage clung to the inside of my nostrils. My embarrassment was palpable with
the horrific realisation that, unknown to me, my fart must have slipped out
during my hasty exit. After all, what other possible explanation could there
be?Photos courtesy of: Stockimages at FreeDigitalPhotos .net Stuart Miles at FreeDigitalPhotos.net